IF ever the searchers for Captain Grant had reason to despair of seeing him again, was it not when every hope forsook them at once? To what part of the world should they venture a new expedition? how explore unknown countries? The Duncan was no longer in their possession, and they could not be immediately reconciled to their misfortune. The undertaking of these generous Scots had, therefore, failed. Failure! sad word, that finds no echo in a valiant soul; and yet, amid all the changes of destiny, Glenarvan was forced to acknowledge his powerlessness to pursue this work of mercy.
Mary Grant, in this situation, no longer had the courage to utter the name of her father. She suppressed her own anguish by thinking of the unfortunate crew. Controlling herself in the presence of her friend, it was she who consoled Lady Helena, from whom she had received so many consolations. The young girl was the first to speak of their return to Scotland. At seeing her so courageous and resigned, Captain Mangles admired her, and would have spoken a final word in favor of Captain Grant, if Mary had not stopped him with a look and then said:
“No, Mr. John; let us think of those who have sacrificed themselves. Lord Glenarvan must return to England.”
“You are right, Miss Mary,” replied he; “he must. The English authorities must also be informed of the fate of the Duncan. But do not give up all hope. The search that we have begun I would continue alone, rather than abandon. I will find Captain Grant, or succumb to the task!”
This was a solemn compact which John Mangles thus made. Mary accepted it, and gave her hand to the young captain, as if to ratify this treaty. On the part of the latter it was a devotion of his entire life; on the part of the former, an unchanging gratitude.
The time of their departure was now definitely decided. They resolved to proceed to Melbourne without delay. The next day Captain Mangles went to inquire about vessels that were upon the point of sailing. He expected to find frequent communication between Eden and Melbourne, but he was disappointed. The vessels were few; two or three anchored in Twofold Bay composed the entire fleet of the place. There were none for Melbourne, Sydney, or Point-de-Galle.
In this state of affairs, what was to be done? Wait for a ship? They might be delayed a long time, for Twofold Bay is little frequented. After some deliberation, Glenarvan was about to decide upon reaching Sydney by the coast, when Paganel made a proposal that was unexpected to every one.
The geographer had just returned from Twofold Bay. He knew that there were no means of transportation to Sydney or Melbourne; but, of the three vessels anchored in the roadstead, one was preparing to start for Auckland, the capital of Ika-na-Maoui, the northern island of New Zealand. Thither Paganel proposed to go by the bark in question, and from Auckland it would be easy to return to England by the steamers of the English company.
This proposition was taken into serious consideration, although Paganel did not enter into those extended arguments of which he was usually so lavish. He confined himself to stating the fact, and added that the voyage would not last more than five or six days.
Captain Mangles advocated Paganel’s plan. He thought it should be adopted, since they could not wait for the uncertain arrival of other vessels. But, before deciding, he judged it advisable to visit the ship in question. Accordingly, he, with Glenarvan, the major, Paganel, and Robert, took a boat, and pulled out to where it was anchored.
It was a brig of two hundred and fifty tons, called the Macquarie, which traded between the different ports of Australia and New Zealand. The captain, or rather the “master,” received his visitors very gruffly. They saw that they had to deal with an uneducated man, whose manners were not different from those of the five sailors of his crew. A coarse red face, big hands, a flat nose, a blinded eye, lips blackened by his pipe, and a specially brutish appearance, made Will Halley a very forbidding character. But they had no choice, and for a voyage of a few days there was no need to be very particular.
“What do you want?” asked Will Halley, as the strangers reached the deck of his vessel.
“The captain,” replied Mangles.
“I am he,” said Halley. “What then?”
“The Macquarie is loading for Auckland?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“What does she carry?”
“Anything that is bought or sold.”
“When does she sail?”
“To-morrow, at the noon tide.”
“Would she take passengers?”
“That depends upon the passengers, and whether they would be satisfied with the ship’s mess.”
“They would take their own provisions.”
“Well, how many are there?”
“Nine,—two of them ladies.”
“I have no cabins.”
“We will arrange a place for their exclusive use.”
“What then?”
“Do you accept?” asked Captain Mangles, who was not embarrassed by this curtness.
“I must see,” replied the master of the Macquarie. He took a turn or two, striking the deck with his heavy, hobnailed boots; then, turning to Captain Mangles, said:
“What do you pay?”
“What do you ask?” was the reply.
“Fifty pounds.”
Glenarvan nodded assent.
“Very well! Fifty pounds.”
“But the passage in cash!” added Halley.
“In cash.”
“Food separate?”
“Separate.”
“Agreed. Well?” said Will Halley, holding out his hand.
“What?”
“The advance-money.”
“Here is half the fare,—twenty-five pounds,” said Captain Mangles, counting out the sum, which the master pocketed without saying “thank you.”
“Be on board to-morrow,” said he. “Whether you are here or not, I shall weigh anchor.”
“We will be here.”
Thereupon Glenarvan, the major, Robert, Paganel, and Captain Mangles left the vessel, without Will Halley’s having so much as touched the brim of his hat.
“What a stupid fellow!” was their first remark.
“Well, I like him,” replied Paganel. “He is a real sea-wolf.”
“A real bear!” remarked the major.
“And I imagine,” added Captain Mangles, “that this bear has at some time traded in human flesh.”
“What matter,” replied Glenarvan, “so long as he commands the Macquarie, which goes to New Zealand? We shall see very little of him on the voyage.”
Lady Helena and Mary Grant were very much pleased to know that they were to start the next day. Glenarvan observed, however, that the Macquarie could not equal the Duncan for comfort; but, after so many hardships, they were not likely to be overcome by trifles. Mr. Olbinett was requested to take charge of the provisions. The poor man, since the loss of the Duncan, had often lamented the unhappy fate of his wife, who had remained on board, and would be, consequently, the victim of the convicts’ brutality. However, he fulfilled his duties as steward with his accustomed zeal, and their food might yet consist of dishes that were never seen on the ship’s table.
In the mean time the major discounted at a money-changer’s some drafts that Glenarvan had on the Union Bank of Melbourne. As for Paganel, he procured an excellent map of New Zealand.
Mulready was now quite well. He scarcely felt his wound, which had so nearly proved fatal. A few hours at sea would complete his recovery.
Wilson went on board first, charged with arranging the passengers’ quarters. Under his vigorous use of the brush and broom the aspect of things was greatly changed. Will Halley shrugged his shoulders, but allowed the sailor to do as he pleased. As for Glenarvan and his friends, he scarcely noticed them; he did not even know their names, nor did he care to. This increase of cargo was worth fifty pounds to him, but he valued it less than the two hundred tons of tanned leather with which his hold was crowded,—the skins first, and the passengers next. He was a real trader; and by his nautical ability he passed for a good navigator of these seas, rendered so very dangerous by the coral reefs.
During the afternoon, Glenarvan wished to visit once more the supposed place of the shipwreck. Ayrton had certainly been the quartermaster of the Britannia, and the vessel might really have been lost on that part of the coast. And there, at all events, the Duncan had fallen into the hands of the convicts. Had there been a fight? Perhaps they would find on the beach traces of a struggle. If the crew had perished in the waves, would not the bodies have been cast ashore?
Glenarvan, accompanied by his faithful captain, undertook this examination. The landlord of Victoria Hotel furnished them with two horses, and they set out. But it was a sad journey. They rode in silence. The same thoughts, the same anxieties, tortured the mind of each. They gazed at the rocks worn by the sea. They had no need to question or answer; no sign of the Duncan could be found,—the whole coast was bare.
Captain Mangles, however, found on the margin of the shore evident signs of an encampment, the remains of fires recently kindled beneath the few trees. Had a wandering tribe of natives passed there within a few days? No, for an object struck Glenarvan’s eye, which proved incontestably that the convicts had visited that part of the coast.
It was a gray and yellow jacket, worn and patched, left at the foot of a tree. It bore a number and badge of the Perth penitentiary. The convict was no longer there, but his cast-off garment betrayed him.
“You see, John,” said Glenarvan, “the convicts have been here! And our poor comrades of the Duncan——”
“Yes,” replied the captain, in a low voice, “they have certainly been landed, and have perished!”
“The wretches!” cried Glenarvan. “If they ever fall into my hands, I will avenge my crew!”
Grief and exposure had hardened Glenarvan’s features. For several moments he gazed at the vast expanse of water, seeking perhaps to discern some ship in the dim distance. Then his eyes relaxed their fierceness, he regained his composure, and, without adding a word or making a sign, took the road to Eden.
Only one duty remained to be fulfilled,—to inform the constable of the events that had just transpired, which was done the same evening. The magistrate, Thomas Banks, could scarcely conceal his satisfaction at making out the official record. He was simply delighted at the departure of Ben Joyce and his band. The whole village shared his joy. The convicts had left Australia because of a new crime; but, at all events, they had gone. This important news was immediately telegraphed to the authorities of Melbourne and Sydney.
Having accomplished his object, Glenarvan returned to the Victoria Hotel. The travelers passed this last evening in Australia in sadness. Their thoughts wandered over this country, so fertile in misfortunes. They recalled the hopes they had reasonably conceived at Cape Bernouilli, now so cruelly disappointed at Twofold Bay.
Paganel was a prey to a feverish agitation. Captain Mangles, who had watched him since the incident at Snowy River, many times pressed him with questions which Paganel did not answer. But that evening, as he went with him to his chamber, the captain asked him why he was so nervous.
“My friend,” replied Paganel evasively, “I am no more nervous than usual.”
“Mr. Paganel, you have a secret that troubles you.”
“Well, as you will,” cried the geographer; “it is stronger than I.”
“What is stronger than you?”
“My joy on the one hand, and my despair on the other.”
“You are joyful and despairing at the same time?”
“Yes; joyful and despairing at visiting New Zealand.”
“Have you any news?” asked Captain Mangles. “Have you discovered the lost trail?”
“No, friend. People never return from New Zealand! But yet—well, you know human nature. As long as we breathe we can hope; and my motto is ‘dum spiro, spero,’ which is the best in the world.”